Ours After All (All Ours, #2)

Chapter 30

Sometimes, I hate my job.

Cooking is definitely my passion, don't get me wrong. But at the end of the night, my feet are screaming for me to find a place to sit.

Like right now. I got to the restaurant at ten this morning. I deep-cleaned the kitchen because the cleaners my boss hired suck and only really pay attention to the seating areas inside the actual restaurant. Also, it's Sunday so of course I ran a lunch service so hectic, I started calling the eggs lucky before I threw them in boiling water.

Then people started coming in for dinner before lunch had even cleared.

''Sally, are you almost done with the pesto?'' I yell out. I hate yelling in the kitchen but sometimes it's necessary.

''Almost. Give me five minutes.''

She said the exact same thing half an hour ago.

I yield her a pointed look. ''Five minutes.''

I hate to admit it, but my mother was right when she said that if I wanted something to be done right, I had to do it myself.

But you know? It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter that it's past ten, and I'll probably be stuck here until way past midnight. It doesn't matter that the only thing I had to eat today was a yogurt bar I found in my car on the way over. It doesn't matter that I've been on my feet for almost thirteen hours. Or that my sous-chef can't figure out how to make pesto after I demonstrated it to her about seventeen times.

It doesn't matter.

Because I'm in a good mood.

I'm in a great mood, even. And surprisingly, nothing seems to be affecting that.

And it has nothing to do with the man that's been occupying my bed for the past few weeks.

Nope.

I gently insert my thermometer into the thickest part of my steak to check the internal temperature, careful not to hit a bone. When it beeps with a notification that says: 133°F, I take it off the grill, softly placing it over my wooden board to rest for five minutes.

''Will you taste this?'' Sally asks, coming up to me with a spoon full of her pesto. ''I feel like it's missing something.''

''The color is nice. Very vibrant green.'' I note before tasting it.

''How many cloves of garlic did you put in this?'' I ask her.

''Two.''

''Add just one more.'' I nod. ''The basil is good. The Parmesan is good. The pine nuts are really coming through nicely. But please mince one more clove of garlic and mix it with a bit of olive oil and put it in. Also, what I do is, I grab a mortar and pestle and crush some fresh peppercorns and Himalayan salt with a bit of walnut and almonds. Gives the pesto some crunch while also enhancing the flavor. You could try it.''

She nods as I talk, all the while writing everything I say down in her recipe book she keeps with her.

''How much salt and pepper?'' She asks.

''You're making a small batch, right?''

''Yes, just one bowl.''

''Half a tablespoon of both, then.''

She looks up from her notebook, smiling at me. ''Thank you, chef.''

I laugh as she walks off to her station, shaking my head. I will never get used to people calling me that.

I'm not even the chef.

Not officially anyway.

''Nara, my darling!'' comes from a booming, familiar voice. ''Just the person I was looking for.''